


The T-Shirt Dilemma

by curiousair



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: (2003 to be exact), 2000s, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Bands, Blow Jobs, Dialogue Heavy, Kissing, Los Angeles, M/M, Marijuana, Meet-Cute, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29153529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiousair/pseuds/curiousair
Summary: Bill stares, following the blur of the drumsticks, and trails his eyes up the guy’s arms to look at his face. Dark eyes, full lips, both ears pierced. Good looking, even with a hard, focused expression etched into his features. At the exact same time, the guy glances up at the crowd, and meets Bill’s gaze, holding eye contact as he maintains a steady beat—bright snare, sharp hi-hat, and deep bass—an unfair combo that vibrates through Bill’s blood and rattles his bones.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	The T-Shirt Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a quick little pwp (and spiritual successor to The Pancake Conspiracy) and admittedly, it got away from me

“What’s the band called? The Breakfast Something?”

“The Pancake Conspiracy,” Ben hisses, gripping the steering wheel. "Please don't disrespect my girlfriend's band."

"She isn't your girlfriend," Bill says, and reaches through the front seats to tap Stan on the shoulder. "Who else is playing?" 

Ben runs a stop sign, meeting Bill's eyes in the rear view mirror. "She isn't my girlfriend  _ yet_." 

Right, how could Bill forget Ben's half baked plan to stand front and center in the crowd in hopes she notices  _ him _ out of all the other white guys wearing oversized shorts and a backwards baseball cap?

"You're delusional." Stan digs around on the floor of the passenger’s seat and finds a crumpled flyer. He passes it to Bill in the backseat, along with an open flask. Bill takes a sniff, sips, and grimaces, squinting at the neon yellow paper in the semi-dark. There's a crude drawing of a guitar and an amp and the words beneath it are illegible, bleeding together into a thick black block of lettering. 

Bill takes another sip from the flask and swallows down the cheap whiskey, warm from being in Stan's backpack at the skate park all day. He smacks his lips, balls up the flyer, and tosses it back into the passenger's seat. "Whoever xeroxed that needs to be shot." 

"Relax, you fucking purist," Stan says, and reaches around the seat for his flask. 

Ben laughs, and drives over a bump in the road at approximately 80 miles an hour. 

"Fuck-" The car jolts, and because Bill is stuck in the Ben’s deathtrap of a car without a functioning seat belt, the force propels him out of his seat and he hits his head on the ceiling, dropping the flask. "Holy shit, can you slow down?”

"Awww, dude." Stan scrambles for flask between the passenger's seat and center console, bemoaning the spilled alcohol as if he doesn’t have an open fifth of whiskey under the seat. 

Ben slows down, but he doesn't apologize because he's got tits on the brain. "They're  _ on _ already. We're _late_."

Bill is only out because Stan begged him to come. Stan’s got a thing for the girl who sings in the headlining band tonight, and has decided he needs Bill to be his wingman. He claims Bill is dependable, meaning he’ll absolutely lie to make Stan look better.  _ Sure, yeah, Stan is a great guy, super chill, none of his ex-girlfriends have keyed his car.  _ Ben is too  _ honest_, Stan says, a roundabout way of calling him an asshole. Give Ben the chance and he’ll absolutely bring up the time Stan shit himself at Magic Mountain and baked in the sun for an hour because Ben wanted to ride Goliath after hearing a woman had died on it the year before. 

Stan also claims he isn’t as pathetic as Ben when it comes to romance, which makes him a ‘better person,’ because he hasn’t followed a girl’s band across three state lines. He has, however, waited on the sidelines and given free weed to a girl for three months even though she had a boyfriend. So, yeah, Bill thinks they’re just about the same level of pussywhipped.

Frankly, Bill doesn’t have the fucking  _ energy_, nor does he have the desire to seek out any sort of serious romantic relationship at this point in his life. Audra wasted his time for two years, constantly calling him in the middle of the night for rides from fucking North Hollywood, forcing him to shitty house shows in the fucking desert, and monitoring his AIM messages to make sure he wasn’t  _ fucking around with other girls_, only to email him six weeks ago and tell him she’s running off to fucking New York with a dude in a fucking ska band. Fuck her. Fuck every guy who plays bass in a ska band on the east coast. Fuck love.

If anything, Bill would be happy with subpar sex for the rest of his life and nothing more if it meant not getting emotionally attached to someone who’s going to make him feel small for six to 24 months, then rip his heart out, eat it, shit it out, and force feed it to him in the end. 

Ben parks down the street in front of the liquor store and swings his door open before the engine fully quiets. “We’re late, we’re fucking  _late_ ,” he’s saying, like the White Rabbit on Adderall. Stan manages to refill his flask, Bill pats his pockets for his wallet, cell phone, lighter, and the joint he rolled  _ without _ Stan’s help, thank you very much, and they stumble out into the night to trail behind Ben.

The venue is small, one he’s been to twice before, back in early college when he was still pretending to be into local hardcore. Aside from it being in a greater state of deterioration, the place hasn’t changed much. It’s small and dark, with a makeshift bar in the back that only accepts cash and a foot-high wooden riser for a stage. Objectively, it’s probably one of the worst places to see a show because of the lack of proper ventilation and proximity to the police station, but it has heart and you never leave without a story to tell. The last time he was here, he accepted shrooms from a stranger in the restroom, had an anxiety attack, then got trampled by teenagers in the pit, spit out onto the sidewalk like chewed gum, and arrested for public intoxication. When this place is shut down, the whole scene in the valley will mourn. 

They flash their IDs at the door to get an over-21 wristband and immediately begin pushing their way through the crowd to get to the front, using Ben as a human battering ram. The Pancake Conspiracy is mid-song, consisting of a driving bassline, an uncomplicated, poppy guitar riff, and a nasally lead singer, overenunciating his words. There’s no barricade separating the crowd from the band, so when they break through the teen girls with their arms linked in the front, Bill finds himself standing close enough to see up the singer’s nose. He’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses, jeans with tattered knees, and a silver lip ring that keeps scratching against the microphone. The man hunches over the mic stand, raking his fingertips over his guitar strings— his voice cracks around a particularly whiny note, and he wails to finish out the song, asinine lyrics about a guy with a  _ “heart emptier and darker than an abyss”  _ but with a  _ “mouth that makes him want to talk to God.”  _ It’s downright awful, but the guy is clearly pouring his heart and soul out, sweat seeping through the front of his shirt, weighing down his dark hair. 

In the lull between songs, Ben cups his hands around his mouth and shouts the bass player's name. Beaming, he does an embarrassing thing where he uses both hands to wave at her. Bill cringes, Stan literally gags, but she winks and Ben clutches his chest like she just shot him with a .22 through the heart. Ben isn’t the only guy staring slack-jawed at her, a quick glance around tells Bill that she’ll never have a shortage of admirers. She commands attention, pale skin practically glowing under the harsh white lights, thrashing and grinning through the cascade of damp red hair hiding her face. 

Bill looks past the pasty lead singer and watches the drummer, who’s easily the most impressive of the trio, carrying the next two songs when each lackluster bridge leads into a boring guitar solo. His drumming is versatile, switching between hard-hitting fast, complex rhythms to lazy grooves that have the crowd swaying. Bill stares, following the blur of the drumsticks, and trails his eyes up the guy’s arms to look at his face. Dark eyes, full lips, both ears pierced. Good looking, even with a hard, focused expression etched into his features. At the exact same time, the guy glances up at the crowd, and meets Bill’s gaze, holding eye contact as he maintains a steady beat—bright snare, sharp hi-hat, and deep bass—an unfair combo that vibrates through Bill’s blood and rattles his bones. Then, the guy quirks an eyebrow at him and the room gets about ten degrees hotter, sending a rush of heat up Bill’s spine that sets his heart racing.

Bill looks away, nudges Stan with his elbow, and leans in to talk over the music. "The drummer is good.” 

Stan smirks, shouts back, “Hot, you mean?” 

“No, he’s-" Bill elbows him again, harder. "Whatever, fuck you.”

On Bill’s other side, Ben adds: "His name is Mike and he's  _single_." 

Bill isn't picky. Practically every tall guy who plays an instrument is on his radar. It's not a particularly high standard because most guys are taller than his  _ staggering  _ 5’7 frame, and his experience at an overpriced, pretentious art school means he’s been around his fair share of okay-looking guys who own midi controllers and sing off-key with shitty acoustic guitars in their laps. College might have given him an aversion to ‘DJs’ and singer-songwriters but unfortunately, he's still weak for every other tall, medium-cute, half-decent musician.

Mike is better than decent and way fucking better than medium-cute. Mike is hot. On a scale of 'You'll Do For Tonight' to 'I'd Gargle Your Sweat Like Mouthwash,' Mike is a solid 'Please Bend Me Over Your Lap.' He's wearing a sleeveless shirt with oversized arm holes and a stretched out collar, revealing his collarbones, his toned, flexing biceps, and a peek of the muscle stretched over his side. He's focused, his lower lip trapped between his teeth, brow furrowed, and sweat glistens on his brown skin, dripping down his temples and rolling down his neck. 

Fuck.

The crowd erupts into applause and Mike stands up, takes a drink of water, pulls his shirt over his head, and drags a towel over his close-cropped hair, face, and chest. Then, because he’s fucking  _ rude_, he finds Bill’s gaze again and smiles, flashing straight white teeth. Bill can’t breathe, can barely fucking  _ think_, all he can do is cross his arms over his chest, and come to terms with the fact that he’s never craved cock this much in his fucking life.

The singer announces that the next song is their last and Bill takes the chance to look his fill. Next to him, Ben sings along and Bill tunes it out, watching Mike's pecs bounce and his abs flex each time he throws his body towards the drum set. Mike finishes with a flourish and tosses his drumsticks into the crowd, which Bill decidedly does not reach for because he isn’t that desperate. Not yet, anyway.

“They were alright,” Stan says, reaching into his pockets as the band clears the stage. “Wanna smoke?”

“Nope,” Ben says, already scrambling up onto the stage to talk to the bass player.

Stan rolls his eyes. “I know  _ you _ don’t, shithead.”

Ben ignores Stan in favor of offering to carry the bass player’s amp. She accepts, giving Ben a pinch on the cheek. Some other poor sucker stands nearby, looking put out. 

Mike starts to break down his drum set, keeping his eyes on Bill as he does. Bill cracks a smile, and thinks about saying something—giving him a compliment that doesn’t have to do with his chest or arms or face—but then, Mike waves at him and all the words leave his head. And that’s really fucking it, isn’t it? Bill may not be as pathetic as Ben or Stan, but he never said he wasn’t easy. This isn't the closest he's felt to love at first sight, not by a longshot, but he’s weak in the knees and hot behind the ears and if he doesn’t do something about it, he’s just going to go home drunk and have another underwhelming jack off session in the shower.

"Um. I might see if I can talk to him." 

“Hmm.” Stan nods, and starts packing the bowl of his pipe right there in front of everyone. "Should probably smoke first." 

Bill looks back at Mike, who's still staring. "Fuck, you're right." 

Outside, they stand at the end of the alleyway and smoke in relative silence. Bill paces himself, knowing that if he gets too stoned he’ll be useless all night. At the opening of the alley, The Pancake Conspiracy and Ben, their eager lackey, load up a white cargo van. 

Mike leaves the building carrying a rolled up area rug with ease, and slides it into the van with the rest of their equipment. Bill holds smoke under his tongue and casually indulges in the mental image of himself draped over Mike’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He figures the ease in which he lets himself slip into this fantasy is evidence enough that he’s sufficiently buzzed.

“Alright,” Bill says, once Mike disappears inside. He coughs, passing the pipe back to Stan. “Wish me luck.”

“Yeah, sure, if you fall in love or suck his dick or whatever, can you at least do it before Patty goes on?” Stan uses the brick wall next to them to ash the pipe. “I’ll look like a stupid fanboy in the crowd by myself." 

"You are a stupid fanboy.”

Stan grins, his eyelids comically low. "We're gonna get married." 

"Good luck on the proposal.” Bill. swipes the flask hanging out of Stan’s pocket. He takes a swig, keeps swallowing to mask the taste of alcohol, and hands it back. 

Stan takes a drink, smacks his lips, and says, "Good luck with the inevitable lockjaw." 

Inside, Bill finds Mike sitting at a fold out table in the back corner. There’s a stack of folded t-shirts in front of him, all black with a hot pink outline of two pancakes printed on the front. The lead singer is sitting on Mike’s left with a guy on his lap who’s wearing eyeliner that makes him look like a raccoon. Ben is there too, attached to the bass player's hip, and Bill gives him a look—eyebrows raised, teeth clenched—that clearly means 'shut the fuck up and don't ruin this for me.'

It’s dimly lit in this corner of the room, just a yellow glow spilling from the overhead lights of the nearby bar. Bill stops in front of the table, puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out and puts them back in. "Hi."

“Hey," Mike says, and his voice is deep, cool toned, and goes straight to Bill's cock. He looks Mike over, not subtly, and notices he's changed into a white t-shirt, loose over his belly but taut over his chest. It should be illegal for someone to look this fucking good in a plain white t-shirt. Suddenly, he has the worst cottonmouth he's ever experienced. 

He licks his lips, and his mind goes blank. Fucking tumbleweeds rolling around in his skull. “You’re Mike.” 

Mike smirks, leans forward and rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm. “That’s me.” 

“Yeah. I’m Bill," he says, and because he's lost in the undivided attention Mike is giving him, he fucking points at himself like an idiot. "That's me, I'm Bill." 

“Nice to meet you, Bill.” Slow and sweet, like honey dripping off a spoon. If Bill's mouth weren't so dry he'd be drooling.

Someone clears their throat, Bill looks, and realizes he's on the receiving end of a dirty look from Raccoon Guy. “Dude. Shirts are 10 bucks. CDs are five. Are you gonna fucking buy something, or what?” 

"No thanks, actually, I- um-" Bill pauses, takes a breath to offset his nervous dizziness, and starts over, turning back to Mike. "So, Mike. I'm impressed. With you, I mean. As a drummer. You're really good. You  _ were _ off on the last song a bit, but still really good." 

Mike smiles wide, the apples of his cheeks rising, and huffs out a laugh. He folds his arms behind his head and leans back in his chair, giving Bill quite the view of his biceps. He’s fucking  _ sexy_, and Bill is out of practice and quite possibly in over his head. He feels six shots deep, exacerbated by the heat and lack or air circulation. 

"You think so?"

“ _Off_? This guy looks like a fucking hobbit,” Raccoon Guy says. His sentient seat, the lead singer, nods solemnly in agreement. “You’re gonna take that shit from him, Mike? Say the word, I’ll fuck him up.”

“No need,” Mike says, giving Bill a once over. Bill teeters in his spot like an unstable tower in the wind. "But...he does kind of look like a hobbit. Cute though."

Bill forces a laugh, otherwise he'll lose it right here and prematurely invite this guy to trade handjobs behind the dumpster in the alley. "Well, you know...I'm pretty sure hobbits have a reputation for being party animals and generally fun to be around. So, I'll take it."

Mike laughs so hard he snorts, which Bill counts as a win. They stare at each other for a moment, and Bill begins to contemplate the easiest and most casual way to proposition a hook-up without coming off like a cocky asshole or a desperate slut.

Ben, who Bill had completely forgotten was standing two feet to Mike's right, appears at Bill's side, muttering in his ear. "Hey, dude. I need your help." He grabs Bill's sleeve and tugs him away from the table, stopping near the bar. "It's Bev."

"Who's Bev?" 

"The bass player? The love of my life? Dude, keep up." Ben looks bewildered, puts a hand on Bill's shoulder and shakes him hard. "She invited me to smoke, I said yes. But, as you know, I don't smoke." 

"Okay?" Bill looks at Ben's face, tries to feel the least bit sorry for his dilemma and comes up with nothing. Instead, he wonders if Mike smokes. They could share a joint, tasting each other's spit. Or, they could shotgun, even though it's far less sexy in real life than it looks in movies. Still, he wants it so much his cock twitches thinking about it. He blinks and focuses on Ben's frantic eyes. "And?" 

"What do I do? I’m gonna say something stupid. All I can think about is wanting to suck her toes." 

“Tell her you don't smoke?” Bill suggests, knowing Ben is past the point of using common sense. “Don’t talk about her feet? Hope she likes you despite the fact that you have a foot fetish?" 

Ben groans and releases his hold on Bill's shoulder. "You suck."

"Sorry, man. Good luck." Bill pats Ben on the back and turns to The Pancake Conspiracy's dinky little merch table, finding that Bev is the only one there. Ahead, he spots Mike heading towards the restroom, looking over his shoulder right at Bill. Bill stops at the bar and slides a dollar bill across the warped wood in exchange for a water bottle. The girl behind the bar hands him the bottle and calls him  _ sweetness_, which would be more effective if he weren't fully prepared to degrade himself for a stranger.

The restroom is small and disgusting, two stalls, one with a broken door, three urinals, and a visible layer of filth on the floor and walls. Mike is at one of the urinals, so Bill tosses his empty water bottle and takes the one next to him, leaning into the inherent eroticism of semi-communal pissing quarters. 

There are dividers between them, but they've never stopped people from catching a peek, accidentally or intentionally. Bill hasn't ever, not even once thought about looking at another man's cock in a public restroom, but he doesn't feel sane right now. He looks down at the stained urinal instead, and feels so deranged he starts wondering why Mike hasn't acknowledged him at all, even though they're standing six inches away from each other with their cocks out. Belatedly, he realizes neither of them is pissing. Mike is just  _ standing there_, and Bill is holding his embarrassing, half-hard cock and probably won't be able to piss until Mike leaves his peripheral. 

They aren't alone either, there's someone in the single functioning stall behind them, doing god knows what. Stan and Ben have told him all about their respective public restroom escapades involving sex and/or drugs. Bill could do without being a first hand witness to someone else's.

Mike steps away from the urinal and Bill keeps his eyes to himself until he finishes up, turning to the sink to wash his hands. The soap dispenser is between the two sinks, half rusted with barely a few drops of watered down soap inside. Something about slamming his hand against the pump and waiting for the weak foam to fall onto his cupped palm feels embarrassing when he knows he’s being watched. Mike is silent, twisting his thick fingers under the steam of water, looking at Bill out of the corner of his eye. Bill presses harder against the soap dispenser, swallows dryly, and looks up at the scratched, cloudy mirror. His cheeks are red, hair disheveled and falling over his forehead for no discernible reason, and honestly, he does look like a hobbit. God fucking dammit.

“You weren’t off on the last song.” 

“No, I was,” Mike insists. He walks over to the paper towel dispenser, where there’s an uncovered roll lying on top, and tears a sheet to dry his hands. “Thanks for telling me.” 

"So, I thought we- I felt like we-" Bill bites down on his lip, scrubs his hands too hard under the cold water. "There's a mutual attraction, right? Tell me if I'm off base here." 

“You aren't," Mike says, and offers no other indication that they’re on the same page. He stands there with his hands in his back pockets, waiting. 

"So, what now?" Bill joins him at the paper towel dispenser and fumbles with the roll. Mike holds it still, helping Bill tear off a sheet. Up close, looking directly at Mike under the fluorescent lighting, Bill can't focus on a single feature for long enough before the next one reels him in. Inviting, deep brown eyes. A broad jaw, with light stubble. The pink tinge of his lower lip. "You're kind of quiet." 

"I'm a quiet guy," Mike says easily, and it sounds genuine enough but there's something smug about it. Smirking, he takes a step back, towards the door. "And maybe, sometimes, I like being chased a little."

"Some kind of game?" Bill doesn't play games anymore. He's learned the hard way that they only lead to trouble. But tonight, for Mike, he just might bite.

"Not at all. I just get sick of always being the first to make a move."

Mike is standing still, but he might as well be pulling Bill in by the collar and whispering in his ear. Something sparkles in his eyes like he's proposing a challenge, as if Bill had expressed anything but overt want. As if there's some unknown risk Bill would be taking by doing this, other than the typical one-night-stand flavor of regret tomorrow morning. It’s as if Mike is casting out a line, waiting patiently on the bank for Bill’s decision.

Bill takes the bait. He places his hands on Mike's chest, not shy about copping a feel, walks him backwards into the wall, and kisses him. He has to stand on his toes to do it, using Mike's wide shoulders to brace himself. Mike kisses back immediately and enthusiastically, the tip of his tongue tracing the edge of Bill's bottom lip, breath hot on Bill's skin, warming him to the bone. He snakes one arm around the small of Bill's back to guide him closer and squeezes his hip, bringing them chest to chest. His scent, rich and earthy with a faint trace of sweat overwhelms Bill's senses, makes him a little lightheaded, and the insistent press of Mike's lips and careful tease of his tongue is the only thing that grounds him. Bill gropes the hard muscles in Mike's shoulders, takes some liberties and squeezes his biceps too before circling back to the pecs. 

Mike doesn't seem to mind—he scrapes his teeth over Bill’s lower lip and asks, "Do you wanna get out of here?" 

Among the current of arousal coursing through him like a thousand volts of electricity, there's relief. If he had to try any harder to make this happen, he would have made an even bigger ass of himself. "Already done being chased?" 

"Well, you caught me." 

"Sure you don't need me to get on my knees and beg?" 

In a not-so-subtle suggestion, Bill drops one hand to ghost over the obvious bulge in Mike's jeans, feeling especially deranged. Mike hisses and grabs Bill's wrist, his lips curling into a smile.

"Give it a few hours and I might take you up on that." 

"Who says the offer will still be on the table in a few hours?" 

There’s a grunt in the stall next to them and Mike glances for a second, but doesn't stray long. He brushes his knuckles across Bill's open lips, dipping them inside to tap the teeth. "You're funny, I like that." 

"What…" Bill breathes, and resists his desire to take Mike's entire finger into his mouth, "you think I want you so bad I'll do anything you say?" 

Mike shakes his head, drags his knuckles up Bill’s jaw. "That isn't what I said, I don't appreciate when people put words in my mouth."

"I'm just saying…" Bill starts, and immediately loses his thought when Mike's fingers slip through his hair, massaging his scalp. The smug, knowing look in Mike's eyes returns and for a moment Bill is weightless. Then, he just fucking  _ drops_, like he's falling through the floor. It's like the 200-foot drop at 80 miles an hour on a rollercoaster, complete with the euphoria. He strokes Mike's cheek, tapping a thumb to his lips. " _ Fuck_, you're hot. This is stupid. You make me feel stupid and I hate it." 

Mike pouts and even  _ that _ looks good on him. "I'm sorry," he says, and kisses Bill again, a quick peck like he can’t resist. "If it's any consolation, looking into your eyes sort of makes me feel like I'm underwater." 

Bill sighs, "Oh, you're a poet too?" 

Another noise comes from the stall, but this time the door swings open and out comes The Pancake Conspiracy's lead singer and his raccoon-eyed partner. 

Raccoon guy groans at the sight of Bill and Mike, patting wadded up toilet paper at the smeared eyeliner under his eyes. "Holy shit, are you guys going to fuck or is this how you get off?"

The singer strolls over to the sink, zipping up his jeans. “Mike, I always figured you were a car sex kind of guy, not a filthy restroom sex kind of guy.” 

Mike removes himself from Bill's grasp, but keeps one hand on his back. "I'm not either of those things." 

"Neither are we," Raccoon guy says, and cuts Mike off before he can interrupt, "Sucking dick doesn't count." 

Unfazed, Mike turns to the singer and says, "Richie, I need to borrow the van." 

Richie smacks the soap dispenser hard enough that the metal cover falls off and clatters to the tile. “Why?” 

“Reasons.” 

"If you want to run off and be a slut with this hobbit-looking dude, I don't care man, you can tell me. I don't judge." 

“His name is  _ Bill_." Mike urges Bill forward a bit, presenting him to his friends. "Bill, this is Richie and his boyfriend Eddie.” 

Bill gives them a wave. They may as well have caught him with his jeans around his ankles. He'd care more if Mike weren't touching him. "Hello."

Eddie squints, looks Bill up and down. "Wait, Bill you're much cuter in this light." 

“Yeah, you’re a cutie, Bill," Richie says, and has the audacity to pinch Bill's cheek with his wet hand. Bill turns his head, too slow on account being kissed stupid and under the influence of drugs, and Richie comes back for seconds.

"Please relax." Mike slaps Richie's hand away and Richie wiggles his eyebrows, at which Mike grimaces. "Just give me the keys, man." 

"Fine." Richie gives Bill's cheek one last pinch. "Bev has them." 

Outside the restroom, Bill and Mike find Bev and Ben at the end of the hall in front of the emergency exit. They're making out, bordering on dry humping, and Bev's got two handfuls of Ben's ass. 

“Hey, sorry to interrupt. Can I get the keys to the van?” 

Bev removes her lips from Ben's with an obscene pop, and Ben goes right ahead and starts slobbering on her ear as she fishes the keys out of one of the many pockets on her baggy pants. "Have fun."

Mike smiles and takes Bill's hand. "Thanks. Who's watching our stuff, by the way." 

"God," she answers, her eyes fluttering closed. "Where are you going?" 

"Out for a bit. I'll have it back before midnight, probably. Maybe." 

Ben giggles into the crook of Bev’s neck and finally turns to face Bill fully. His eyes are half lidded and red, and when he speaks he sounds like has a mouth full of peanut butter. “Have fun.”

Mike leads Bill outside, even walks him to the passenger's seat and opens the door for him. Bill climbs in, moving a few CDs off the seat. He doesn't ask where they're going and Mike doesn't mention it, he just starts the van and turns down the blaring music. Bill puts his seat belt on, thankful that his nerves are more contained now that there's almost an 100 percent chance of them touching each other's cocks tonight.

Less than five minutes into the ride, when they're on the freeway going south, Bill's phone rings.

"Hello?" 

"Where are you?" Stan is annoyed, letting out an excessive huff to make sure Bill knows it. “Patty is about to go on." 

"Uhh.” Bill looks through the windshield, and at Mike’s fingers tapping a beat on the steering wheel. “I’m out. With Mike." 

Stan groans. "How long does it take to exchange blowjobs?!" 

"Listen,” Bill sighs, and cups the phone as if Mike could hear Stan shouting down the line. “I'll owe you, alright? Just...I don't know, be a fucking adult at a show alone for once?" 

“ _William-_ ” 

“Stanley. I think you can manage without me,” Bill hisses. “I  _ need _ this, alright. Don’t call me again tonight unless you’re fucking dying.”

"Fine! Have fun, asshole. Hope the dick is worth it!”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be.”

“Great! I want details tomorrow, shithead,” Stan says, and the line goes dead.

"Everything okay?" Mike asks. He jabs the eject button on the CD player, pulls the CD out, and blindly reaches for another one in the center console.

"Yeah, my friend is...I don't know,” Bill stifles his groan and forces a laugh instead. “He needs me to tag along so he looks cool?" 

"Ah, okay." Mike feeds another CD into the player and something upbeat and fast paced plays through the speakers, a shrill female vocalist coming in to pant and screech over what sounds like a single guitarist and a drummer trying their absolute best without a bass player. 

"Do you know Patty?" Bill asks.

"Yeah, from Big Clit," Mike says. "I know her. Why?" 

"My friend Stan has a huge thing for her." 

"Oof, good luck. Patty is…” Mike trails off, pursing his lips. “She's tough." 

"Stan’s tough too,” Bill says. “But, I’ll bite. What makes her so tough?” 

“She might be tough to convince, I mean,” Mike explains. "So, Big Clit is doing a  _ riot grrrl _ thing. I'm all for it, think it’s great actually. Wouldn’t be surprised if they made it big. But, Patty tried to recruit Bev when they were in between bass players. She wouldn’t leave it alone, no matter how many times Bev said no. They go way back. Early high school, I think, but Bev and Richie have known each other since 5th grade. And, Patty thinks Richie's a misogynist which...she isn’t 100 percent wrong, but it’s a whole thing. There’s beef. She’s...opinionated. Strong-willed.”

Bill laughs, mentally recalling all the times Stan has specifically gone for women who have threatened him with physical violence. “Stan is too. Sounds like the perfect match.” 

“Maybe so." Mike rolls down his window and Bill does the same, letting the cool night air rush into the car.

"How long has the band been around?" Bill asks. "Seems like there were a lot of people there to see you guys."

“About four years. We just started doing regular shows this past year though."

"Why are you guys called The Pancake Conspiracy?"

“Well.” Mike takes a breath, lets out a little  _ hmph _ resembling a laugh, and turns down the music. "Five years ago, Before Richie started dating Eddie, he had a dream that they were sitting at a diner eating pancakes and talking about 'the best pancakes in town'. He claims it was a premonition. They've been together ever since, and when we were coming up with names he blurted out 'The Pancake Conspiracy' and it stuck."

Bill pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. "That's beautiful."

“Sure is.” Mike nods, and turns the music back up. “Do you play anything?”

"Okay, don't laugh...I was a band geek,” Bill mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. Mike looks delighted, his brows shooting up to his hairline and Bill literally has to close his eyes for a second. High school nearly fucking killed him, and his shitty run as a music major for a single year in college practically ruined his life and threatened to steal all his passion for music. To put it simply, he doesn’t like to think about what could have been if he weren’t irrevocably sad. “It's been like ten years since I've picked up an instrument." 

"Let me guess…I’m thinking brass." Mike hums, glances at him and squints. "Trumpet?"

" _What the fuck?_ ” Bill turns in his seat to face Mike fully, pressing his back to the door. “How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess?” Mike says, through full and bright laughter. "Ever been in a ska band?" 

"I'm offended you'd ask me that. For more than one reason. I hate ska." Bill grits his teeth, picturing Audra hanging off the arm of some Reel Big Fish knockoff. "I played a little keyboard too, does that mean I’m more likely to join a shitty 80s inspired power pop band?"

"Ah,” Mike says, like a revelation, nodding his head, “you're a music snob." 

Bill shrugs. "Yeah, so?" 

Mike keeps nodding, watching the road. "A music snob that doesn't play." 

"I know a lot about music,” Bill says. It sounds defensive, and maybe he  _ is _ a little defensive. He may have given up on playing and Ben may give him shit for not being able to play through a whole song anymore, but he draws the line at people assuming his musical intelligence.

"Yeah, okay." Mike motions for Bill to go on. "What do you know about music?" 

"I know ska sucks. So does 'pop punk,' or whatever your band is. Boring and shallow." 

"Alright,  _ Pitchfork_, relax,” Mike says, and reaches over to give Bill’s arm a light squeeze. “What are you into, then? Since you know so much." 

“Have you heard of Hella?” Bill asks. “Or Slint?” 

"Derivative,” Mike says, with a flippant wave.

Bill frowns. "Of  _what_?" 

"Every doom and gloom, headache inducing noise rock band that came before.” Mike rolls his eyes and laughs, and slaps a hand over his chest. “At least my genre is fun. At least my band has a  _ singer._" 

"Sure,” Bill says, and rolls his eyes right back. “Singing about hating your mom, your ex, and your hometown. Not a lot of substance there." 

“Says who? We’re a band made up of three queers, one of us is a woman,  _ and  _ one of us is Black,” Mike says, matter-of-factly, grinning wide. “We could sing the alphabet over an instrumental cover of a Britney Spears song and it'd have more substance than any of the shit you listen to." 

“I’m just saying…” Bill stares at Mike’s profile, the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. "You're too good for your band."

Mike shrugs, and his smile falters a bit. "I like my band."

“Fair enough,” Bill says, and pauses for dramatic effect. "But would you listen to your band if you weren't in it?"

Mike turns to look at him and asks, without a moment of hesitation, "Would you have stood through our set if you didn't want to hook up with me?"

“Okay, alright." Bill laughs, shifts in his seat and mutters, "You know the answer to that."

Mike grins and turns off the radio. “Tell me more about yourself."

They talk about work, and it's a boring conversation topic but it's easy to complain about. Bill has been a copy editor for a magazine for three years, though it has little to do with all of the creative writing and literature courses he took. Mike talks about his grad school experience, complains about his library job and his copious amount of debt, and then decides he hates talking about work. He steers the conversation back to music, asking Bill his opinions on everything from blues to metal. This leads into a heated discussion about genres and Mike is wholly  _ wrong _ but he's so cool and confident about it, Bill wants to scream, crawl into his lap, and kiss him until their lips go numb.

Mike listens to Bill's rant respectfully for the most part, occasionally reaching out to stroke his arm, which effectively keeps him from dipping below a base level of excitement. His nerves return when Mike takes a familiar off-ramp and pulls into the quiet neighborhood. Up the hill, he can see the top of the Greek theatre and once Mike stops the van at the south edge of Griffith Park, it starts to feel like they’re on a date. 

When it comes to hook-ups, he's out of practice. He figured they'd be heading to Mike's place for an easy,  _ casual _ hook-up after which Bill would leave as soon as possible to avoid getting too comfortable. His expectations were low, as they always are with things like this, and it isn't as if hooking up in a car is any more romantic just because they're at a park on top of a hill in a rich neighborhood. But the thing is, Bill's standards are as low as his expectations. A quickie parked in an empty lot would have served him just as well as anything else. 

It's late, just after eleven according to the clock on the dashboard. Up ahead there are a few cars parked, including a security van that patrols the area around the Greek and this side of the park. Mike takes the keys out of the ignition and as silence settles between them, anticipation thrums under Bill's skin. He doesn’t reach for Bill, nor does he lean forward and wait for Bill to meet him halfway. He unbuckles his seat belt and turns in his seat, throwing one arm over the back, drops his temple to the headrest, and opens his legs. Then, he smooths a hand over his thigh, drags his gaze up and down Bill’s body, and smiles. That alone sets Bill on fire. 

Bill unbuckles his seatbelt, and the simple act of lifting out of his seat, leaning over the wide center console to practically smash his lips into Mike’s has him shaking. Mike does touch him then, a gentle hand on the back of his neck, and Bill literally  _ whimpers. _ He stops, chuckling against Mike’s lips. “Sorry.” Mike opens his eyes, smiles, and slides his hand down Bill’s back. “It’s okay,” he whispers and brings their lips together again. Bill feels around in the dark car and finds Mike’s thigh, crawling his hand up until his fingertips brush the edge of his hard cock, trapped under rough denim. He exhales through his nose, whimpers again when Mike hums into his mouth, and realizes the second he gets on top of Mike and feels himself totally enveloped, held, and trapped in his embrace, he’s going to lose his mind. It’d be a miracle if he lasted more than sixty seconds.

Mike places a kiss to the corner of Bill’s mouth and tilts his head back, searching Bill’s face. “We can slow down if…”

Bill swallows, drops into his seat, wipes a hand over the heated skin of his face. “Yeah, sorry. It’s like...I feel deranged every time you touch me.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mike says, and swings his door open. “It’s nice out. Sit with me?”

It is nice out, with a warm breeze and the moon low, bright white in the sky. Mike opens the van’s back doors and they settle into the small space behind the band’s equipment, dangling their legs over the bumper. Mike doesn’t sit close, and Bill is grateful for the breather. He fishes the joint out of his pocket, smooths it out the best he can, and asks Mike if he wants to smoke. Mike nods, motions for Bill to go ahead.

“I should have asked earlier, but…are you seeing anyone? I don’t, like…" Mike watches the flickering flame erupt from Bill’s lighter and gestures vaguely. "I don't hook up with guys who want to keep me a secret. Bad experience.” 

“Nope.” Bill lights up, takes a puff, holds it. “Completely single.” 

Mike takes the joint, pauses with it halfway to his mouth. Between the open doors, half of his face is in a shadow, the other half illuminated by the moon. “For a while?” 

Bill stares at Mike’s lips, his tongue swiping at the corner, and uses that image to override the memories of Audra swirling around in his head. “Not long.” 

“...Why’d you two break up?” Mike asks, and finally brings the joint to his lips. “If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“She was kind of a nutcase.” 

Mike coughs, shakes his head. “Bullshit.”

“It’s not though,” Bill says, and drops his eyes to the pavement. “She ran off with another guy.” 

"Bummer." A frown crosses Mike’s face for a split second, and fades just as quickly. "Why’d she’d do that?” 

Bill shrugs. “Fuck if I know.” 

Smoke billows around them and Bill stares at the red glow at the end of the joint, focusing on that instead of how itchy this conversation makes him. Mike levels a steady look at him. “You’re telling me she left you for another guy and didn’t give you a reason?” 

“She said-...” Bill sighs, plucks the joint from Mike's fingers, and mumbles, “She said I was a bad boyfriend.” 

“Bingo.” 

“Fuck off, I didn’t  _ push _ her to cheat on me.” 

Yes, Bill was emotionally distant most of the time because he was afraid of the intensity of his feelings, even a year plus into the relationship. Yes, he complained about everything, especially about her being needy but only because he saw something in her that mirrored him too closely. Yes, they fought a lot—she was jealous and possessive and treated him like her fucking servant on most days and like a lapdog on the rest. But, he loved her. He was loyal to her. For the most part, he wanted her around and he  _ trusted _ her. 

He often finds himself thinking that maybe someday, he could have opened up and been what she wanted. Maybe he could have shown her that he actually did care instead of spending the majority of the relationship finding the worst in everything, thinking six steps ahead, and assuming that one or both of them would end up disappointed. He had tried so fucking hard to do the right thing, taking his time, following her lead, playing her games, and he still managed to fuck it up. 

Maybe this does make him a shitty boyfriend, but he doesn't deserve what she did to him. 

Or maybe, he's just stoned and overthinking.

"That isn't what I said," Mike replies, smiling a little. "What'd I say about you putting words in my mouth?" 

"You implied it," Bill grumbles, at which Mike laughs.

"Hey, your words, not mine. But fine, we'll stop talking about your ex." Mike sighs, relenting, pauses for about two seconds, and continues casually. "Though I have to say, because if I don’t it’ll eat at me all night...I think you’d be a good boyfriend. From what I’ve seen, anyway."

"Thanks," Bill says, staring at the moon reflecting in Mike’s right eye, which doesn’t help to quell his racing heart. "Not sure I'm looking to be anyone's boyfriend though."

Mike looks at him for a long minute, finishing off the joint. Bill wiggles a bit under the gaze and wonders what Mike sees, what he’s said or done that’s made Mike think he's  _ boyfriend material_, or if there's something in the way he’s carrying himself.

Then, Mike flicks the roach onto the pavement and Bill pouts a little because he realizes that in the midst of all this talk about  _ relationships_, he had forgotten to subtly suggest the intimate act of shot-gunning.

Typical Audra, occupying his mind and distracting him even when she isn’t around. Fuck her.

"I'm idealistic about a lot of things," Mike says, reaching into the van between two guitar cases. He produces a water bottle, unscrews the cap, takes a sip, and passes it to Bill. "Head in the clouds, kind of. That's why my last relationship ended. I move too fast...fall too hard." 

"Unfortunate," Bill says, and takes a drink, setting it behind him when Mike declines a second sip.

"I'm trying to get better at not doing that." Mike closes his hand around Bill's wrist and tugs, urging him closer. "But, it's difficult when I meet people like you."

Where both the moonlight and Mike's warmth can reach him, Bill blinks and says, "Oh."

Mike nods, draws a circle with the tip of his thumb on Bill's cheek. "Well, would you look at that? You blush all the way up to your ears.”

Bill wets his lips, makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and before he can speak, Mike kisses him.

“Okay,” Bill says, letting his eyes close as Mike kisses the hinge of his jaw. "You're ridiculously good at this.”

“Yeah?" Mike presses his lips to Bill's throat and stays there, speaking under his breath. "I don’t want you to think I’m some scumbag who takes every guy here just to hook up.” 

“I don’t think you're that kind of guy," Bill admits, far too honest. Mike isn't too nice or faux-sweet, but his calm confidence cuts through the flimsy guard Bill has been attempting to fortify. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

He smiles against Bill's neck, his stubble tickling Bill's skin. “What kind of guy do you think I am?” 

“You tell me."

Mike lifts his head but stays close, one hand still on Bill's thigh and the other on his hip, their noses nearly touching. “I’d like to think I'm a romantic.” 

Bill glances up at the sky, listens to the rustle of the trees. “This is the most romantic night I’ve had in awhile.” 

"Is it?" 

Their lips brush when Mike speaks, Bill kisses him quick, unable to resist, and pulls back to look at his eyes. "Yeah. You can see the stars from here a little bit. It’s quiet. It doesn’t smell like piss.” 

Mike cups a hand to Bill's cheek, covering the entire left side of his face. “Either you need better standards or better partners.” 

“Both, probably," Bill mutters, and Mike goes quiet, staring at Bill like he's memorizing his features. 

“This is sort of romantic, I guess,” he says. “With you.” 

Bill tilts his head in Mike's hand, brushes his lips against the rough palm. “You guess?” 

“Hard not to think it when you’re looking at me like that," Mike says, his voice low. He lifts his free hand and walks his fingertips up Bill's arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Unfortunately, Bill can't blame weed and the tiny amount of alcohol he's consumed for the weightless feeling in his chest. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, sinks a little under Mike's touch, and it's bad news all around.

In an attempt to get ahead of it, Bill moves his arm away from the light, tickling sensation. “You’re laying it on kinda thick, don't you think?"

“I don’t know how to turn it off," Mike whispers, and places a soft kiss to Bill's lips. 

“Oh, so, it’s some autopilot thing?" Bill asks, and fully acknowledges that his sarcastic tone is a shitty defense mechanism. It does nothing to bury his self-consciousness, and he doubts it hides the tremble in his voice either. Still, he goes on. "Your default setting around guys?” 

Mike's brows furrow and he drops his hand from Bill's cheek. “See, you’re implying that I’m just telling you what you want to hear, which I don’t appreciate. I consider myself to be a pretty genuine person."

"So, be genuine," Bill says, with sweat prickling at his hairline. "Just tell me how it is. No bullshit."

"Okay. Here's how it is: I’m attracted to you. I think you're cute and smart. Sweet too, aside from the slight superiority complex-"

"Don't." Bill waves him off, as if he can physically bat away the compliments. "I haven't been called sweet since I was like ten."

“I'm just calling it like I see it," Mike says, as smooth as ever. "And, by the way, if I wanted to sleep with someone with no strings attached, I wouldn’t have to sweet talk my way into it. So, if my lack of filter when I’m around someone I might really like makes me seem disingenuous, then maybe I’m doing something wrong here.” 

"Um.” Bill’s face goes hot for all the wrong reasons. "I-"

“Am I?" Mike asks, and the pitch in his voice lifts about two octaves. "Doing something wrong, I mean?” 

“No." Bill shakes his head, fast enough to strain a muscle. "I’m just...not used to it, I guess. I just assumed-” 

“If I’m coming on too strong and it’s weird...” Mike starts to pull away, creating distance between them, and panic rises in Bill’s throat.

“You aren’t— it isn’t. I'm nervous. You make me nervous."

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to-"

"Don't be. I don't know how to take a fucking compliment." Bill grabs Mike's hand before he can pull away any more, and laces their fingers together. He takes a breath, exhales, and tries to let himself enjoy this. "Just-  _ fuck_, okay...what else do you think about me?” 

Mike's shoulders relax and his smug expression returns. “Fishing for compliments now?”

“Or insults,” Bill jokes. "Whatever you want to give me. I'm easy."

“You know what I think?" Mike cups the back of Bill's head, and Bill lets himself be cradled. "I think...if I never got the chance to kiss you again after tonight, I’d be pretty upset.” 

Bill kisses him, and is reminded that  _ this _ is the entire reason he left the club. Not to grumble about his ex, to face his abysmal self esteem, or to reluctantly swoon over a stranger. Or,  _ god fucking forbid,  _ to find himself on a spontaneous quasi-date.

They fit into the cramped space in the back of the van, behind the stacked equipment. When Mike pulls Bill closer, this time Bill doesn't hesitate to climb into his lap and straddle his thighs. Mike reaches over to pull the van doors shut and light streams in through the windshield, partially blocked by the pile of instruments, and filters dimly through the tinted windows. In the near dark, Bill finds his lips again, delving fully into the want that's been steadily growing inside of him, pawing through the thick tension to find the root of it. He sucks Mike's lower lip into his mouth and Mike slides his hands down Bill's back to grab his ass, pulling him even closer, tugging his lip from Bill's mouth just to dive back in with just as much fervor. Bill grinds against him, pressing his hard cock into Mike's firm stomach, and with it comes a moan that he wasn't prepared to hear bouncing off the metal walls and ringing in his ears. "Fuck," he breathes, and he presses close again, a shiver running down his spine. 

Beneath him, Mike is rock hard and spit pools in Bill's mouth just thinking of it. It's fucking maddening, pulling his breath out of his lungs in shaky sighs, and the slow rocking becomes a frantic rutting, almost bouncing in Mike’s lap. Their kisses dissolve into a messy slide of their lips and tongues, panting hot and harsh, filling the space with damp air. Mike kisses the column of Bill's neck, sucking and biting, and moves to mouth along the shell of Bill's ear. "Please," Bill asks, squeezing his thighs tight around Mike's hips, unsure what he's even asking for, and Mike grips his ass harder, closing his teeth around Bill's earlobe. Bill twitches, and his elbow bumps against something hard. A muted, hollow thud sounds in the space and pain vibrates up Bill's arm. Hissing, he wiggles in Mike’s lap, his knee bumps something else, and in his final attempt to readjust his position, his foot gets trapped in a tangle of cords. 

Suddenly he’s laughing, shaking with it, letting Mike hold him still as he yanks his foot free. “This might be a problem.”

“We could go to my place? It isn’t far,” Mike says. "Though if you come to my apartment, it'd be hard watching you leave." 

Bill is already too far gone. The last thing he needs is the opportunity to settle into Mike’s bed and wake up next to him in a clouded, post-sex bliss, unaware of the heartbreak that lies ahead. He cups Mike’s face in his hands and kisses him again, knowing very well that going to his apartment would only rationalize the feelings cropping up inside of him. "No,” he decides. “I want you here. Now."

"Lift up,” Mike says, and Bill does, folding his knees to his chest to let Mike get up and open the van doors. He hops out, sticks both hands between two amps, pulls out the large, dusty area rug, and tosses it up onto his shoulder. “Follow me.” 

They venture into the park, walking until they can no longer see the road. Mike drops the rug, unrolls it with his foot and gestures grandly at the space. “This okay?” It’s not quite dark, the combination of moonlight and light pollution gives them enough to work with, and they’re hidden away for the most part, tucked between two trees. Someone could, hypothetically, walk through this part of the park and catch Bill with a cock in his mouth, but he realizes now, as his heart races and threatens to pound out of his chest, that the possibility of getting caught is part of the thrill of public sex.

“More than okay,” he says, and all but drops to his knees. Mike joins him, and they pick up where they left off, with Bill straddling his lap. Mike kisses him once, short and sweet, and gets a hand between them to undo his belt. 

"May I?" 

"Yeah,” Bill says, unabashed and eager. “Please."

“Thank you,” Mike says, needlessly polite, and pops the button on Bill's jeans.

It's been a while since he's been this exposed—the most he's done since getting dumped is make out with people who were equally jaded and pissed at their exes—and he hasn't missed the nerve-wracking ordeal of showing someone your cock for the first time. He looks down at it, leaking in Mike's hand and feels the need to apologize.  _ Yeah, sorry it isn't that big. It works alright though. _

Mike licks his palm, wraps it around Bill's cock, and strokes him once, coaxing an embarrassing moan out of him. He grins, and goes on intentionally slow, tightening his grip. To distract from his own rapidly building arousal, Bill unzips Mike's fly, pulls down the elastic of his boxers, and gets a hand around his significantly bigger, thicker cock. Mike's jaw drops, he makes a throaty sound, and the rhythm of his hand on Bill's cock goes erratic.

“Can I suck you off?” Bill asks, climbing off of Mike's lap. He tucks himself back into his boxers and positions himself on his knees between Mike's legs. "Please?" 

Mike nods, eyes half-lidded, and leans back onto his palms. Bill lowers himself to a forearm, bringing himself eye level with Mike's cock, and wastes no time getting his mouth around it the best he can. It’s as heavy in his mouth as it was his hand, filling it up and stretching the corners of his lips. He isn't the best at this and hasn't ever been, but he makes up for it with heart and determination. He takes his time but he’s messy about it, drooling down the length, sucking on the head, twisting his hand over the spit-slick parts his mouth can't reach. Mike curses under his breath and Bill chases the thrill it gives him, swallowing the salty sweet fluid on the back of his tongue as if it's the best thing he's ever tasted, a mix of slightly bitter pre-cum and clean skin. The most delicious part is how deep Mike's voice gets. It should be impossible, how it rumbles low, vibrates through his chest and resonates where Bill's hand is pressed to his abs. 

"Ah, shit, that's so fucking good." Mike’s fingers tangle in Bill’s hair, abs tensing under Bill's hand, and he's fully moaning, head thrown back, letting the sound get lost in the trees above them. It's a breathless keening, growing louder and higher in pitch until he seizes and lets out a final, broken moan before coming down Bill's throat, and slumping over with a satiated sigh. 

“Fuck, come here.” Mike pulls Bill up before he can even lick his lips, and kisses him deep like he’s trying to taste the back of his throat, lapping up the remnants of his own come. He urges Bill to lie down, rucks his shirt up over his nipples and kisses a line down the center of his chest, pausing at his waistband. "May I?" he asks, and doesn't even wait until the word yes has reached the front of Bill's teeth. He settles on his belly, tugging Bill's jeans down past his hips, and Bill's cock springs free, throbbing and wet against his belly.

"Beautiful," Mike says, his breath damp and hot on Bill's skin.

Bill props himself up on his forearms because he’ll be damned if he misses out on the view, and Mike winks at him. Then, he hooks his arms under the backs of Bill’s knees, reaching around to grasp both thighs, and slides him down the rug, knocking him onto his back. "Stay just like that for me, okay?" Mike whispers, and hooks Bill's legs over his shoulders, keeping a bruising grip on his hips.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, tucking his chin to his chest to look down. Mike holds his gaze, ducks his head and licks up the underside of Bill’s cock, flattening his tongue. Bill whines, every muscle in his body twitches, “ _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck-_ ” and he drops his head onto the rug, seeing stars. Mike dips the tip of his tongue into Bill's slit, pulling precum into his mouth, and swallows him down all the way to the hilt, burying his nose into the short crop of Bill's pubes and breathing in. Bill chokes then, forcing a sharp inhale and letting out a choppy exhale, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Mike pulls off, leaving Bill’s cock bobbing and dripping in the cool air. "You taste so fucking good," he says, sounding far too wrecked already, and sucks both of Bill's balls into his mouth, looking up from under his eyelashes. Bill opens his eyes and looks down his heaving chest as Mike licks up the length of his cock again, closing around the head, hot enough to melt him, tight enough to suck him dry. Bill thrusts into the tight heat, rushes out a jumbled warning that he’s about to come his fucking brains out, and Mike slows to a stop. He crawls up next to Bill, propped up on one elbow, and replaces his mouth with a huge, firm hand. When Mike kisses him, steadily pulling him closer and closer to the edge, it feels like he’s floating on a hot sheet of metal in the sun with a strong current carrying him along. He focuses on Mike’s skilled lips suckling at his tongue, tracing careful circles around the tip with his, the press of Mike’s thumb, the slide of his hand, and the weight of his body half on top of him, and his head spins. Mike hums and kisses him deeper, forcing his mouth open wider and licking at his palate. Bill shudders, and comes in Mike’s hand, muffling his moan in Mike’s mouth.

Coming down feels like floating back to earth, his limbs loose and tingly in Mike’s embrace. “Oh fuck,” he says, and upon realizing that there’s cum splashed across his stomach  _ and _ his t-shirt, he laughs. “Oh. Fuck.”

Mike kisses the corner of his mouth and stands up. “Be right back,” he says, and true to his word, he does come right back, holding a black t-shirt in his hands. “For you.”

Bill accepts the t-shirt and sits up, unfolding it on his lap. Two pink pancakes stare back at him. He blinks at it, and belatedly realizes that the two pancakes and the appropriately placed pads of butter are supposed to represent tits. “Classy,” he mutters and pulls his t-shirt over his head, careful not to get cum in his hair. He puts the new shirt on, and Mike beams at him.

“Looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” Bill says, and flops down onto his back, delighted when Mike bends over and kisses him. He looks up at Mike’s soft brown eyes and stupidly holds out his ruined shirt. “I don’t know what to do with this now.”

“I’ll take it,” Mike offers, with a shrug.

Bill raises an eyebrow, a laugh bubbling up in his throat. “Oh, you want to keep my jizz shirt?” 

“That isn’t what I said,” Mike laughs. "When you put it like that…" 

"That's what it sounds like,” Bill tells him, and his cheeks start to ache from smiling too hard.

"I meant I could take it with me when I go home,” Mike says, pushing Bill’s hair off his forehead. “I could wash it, and I could give it back to you another time." 

Bill’s bites back his smile. "So, you'd have an excuse to see me again." 

Mike tilts his head, makes a face as if he’s considering a brand new possibility. "That would be a perk." 

"Sneaky,” Bill says, and can’t help but reach up and stroke his fingertips over Mike’s cheek. It’s too tender, way too fucking much, but brings that weightless feeling back to the center of his chest, this time growing and spreading warmth under his ribs.

"You're implying I made you come all over your own t-shirt. On purpose." 

"Technically you did." 

"Okay, smartass,” Mike says, and rolls his eyes. “You want to carry your jizz shirt around all night or do you want me to wash it so I have an excuse to invite you to lunch tomorrow?" 

"Why not breakfast?" Bill grins and adds, a little quieter, "I work tomorrow afternoon, so..." 

"Sorry, I hate breakfast foods,” Mike says, and his subdued smile stirs even more inappropriate fondness in Bill’s chest. 

"Fuck,” Bill sighs. “Me too." 

Mike tsks and shakes his head. "Damn, there goes our chance. Guess I won't be able to kiss you after tonight. I'm devastated." 

"Me too,” Bill says, dropping a hand over his racing heart. “Guess we'll never see each other again and you're stuck with my jizz shirt." 

Mike laughs, and Bill sits up to kiss him through it, reveling in the way it feels on his lips. After trading a few more kisses, they get to their feet and Mike rolls up the rug at a leisurely pace despite his self imposed midnight curfew. He tosses it over one shoulder, holds out his free hand for Bill to take, and leads them back through the park. 

There's a new tension between them when they stop at the rear of the van, a gentle pressure urging them together. Mike drops the rug, takes Bill's other hand, and clears his throat. Bill looks at him, bathed in the soft white glow of the moon, and knows that tonight isn't the last time they'll see each other.

Bill could put himself out there, show himself barer than he already has, and ask Mike to hang out again. But, the issue with asking for things is that even when you're 99 percent sure you'll get the answer you want, there's always that one percent margin where disappointment lies. The issue with disappointment, is that it has the power to fuck Bill up more than anything else.

It could be a big fucking waste of energy in the end, and this night could be another shitty night to add to his memory bank of Bad Nights Out, only because it was soured by never becoming more than this. And just the thought of that,  _ more_, makes him a little queasy, like the nerves he gets at the crest of a rollercoaster.

"So, neither of us like breakfast food,” Mike says. “But,  _ hypothetically speaking_, if you were to come to my place and if you happened to stay the night, we could eat pasta for breakfast. Or, anything you want.” His smile goes a little crooked, his chest visibly rising with a deep inhale. “Also, in the case of jizz shirts, I wouldn't have to do laundry because,  _ hypothetically speaking_, you could wear one of my t-shirts. Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically,” Bill echoes, nodding, his hands shaking in Mike’s hold. “And then I would have to see you again...to return the shirt."

"Of course. Otherwise it'd be a whole thing,” Mike says, faux-serious. “You don't want to accidentally steal someone's shirt."

"Oh, of course not,” Bill agrees, just as serious.

This could be a mistake. It could blow up in his face and hurt him worse than the implosion of his long-term relationship, simply because the potential on the horizon seems too great, promising, and enthralling to ignore. 

"Here's what we'll do then: We'll go to my place, we kiss a little more, you fall asleep with me in my bed. Okay?"

Bill nods again, reeling at the thought of climbing into Mike’s bed with no intentions other than to sleep. "Yeah, okay."

His feelings, and the ones he sees, hears, and  _ feels _ echoed and reflecting back at him could be a fluke. He could be out of his league. He could be getting ahead of himself. He could wake up tomorrow, scolding himself for being naive enough to let a stranger in-

"Great." Mike pulls Bill closer, reels him back in and holds him there, forcing him to listen to the rest of the pitch. "And in the morning, we'll eat pasta or whatever you want for breakfast and you'll wear one of my shirts home. Then, I'll wash your shirt, you'll wash mine, and we'll meet up to trade. If we happen to kiss a little more during the t-shirt trade, I wouldn't be opposed. How's that sound?" 

Fear creeps up Bill’s spine, right along the excitement, undercutting his immature desire to hold Mike’s hand on the ride back to his place. It isn’t a question of  _ if _ he’ll get attached, it’s a question of  _ how soon_, and with attachment comes a litany of issues. Too invested or not invested enough, too jealous or too flippant, too needy or too distant. 

Mike squeezes Bill’s hands and Bill can’t tell if it’s a suggestion or a question. It could both—a gentle shove in the right direction and a hopeful request, wrapped up in one. He chews his lip, takes another deep breath, and shifts from one foot to the other, waiting.

And Bill thinks: Fuck this. Fuck being jaded and afraid. Fuck all of his hang-ups, his past, and all the mistakes he's made that keep him awake at night, stewing with regret.

This could end badly. 

Or, it could end right here without him ever knowing for sure.

"If I go, and if I spend the night with you, in your bed,” Bill says, and takes a step forward, breathing Mike in, allowing himself to lean into the inevitability of getting attached. “And if you let me borrow one of your t-shirts,” he adds, dipping his fingers into Mike’s collar, feeling a quick pulse against his knuckles. “Can I wear this one?"

**Author's Note:**

> hello, I'm on twitter as curiousair


End file.
